


In the presence of absent fathers

by bauble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Written for Inception Reverse Bang. Inspired by Escapingdream28's arthere.





	In the presence of absent fathers

"Another scotch, sir?"

Robert blinks, then looks up at the bartender across the counter. "No, thank you. I think I'm done for the night."

The bartender nods, all polite diffidence. "Let me know if you need anything else."

Robert scans the shelves of top-shelf liquor in elegant bottles behind the counter, and thinks he's been here before. Hasn't he? Everything seems vaguely familiar. But when he glances down at his cocktail napkin there's no monogram, nothing to announce the name of the hotel he's in.

The lack of helpful detail is disconcerting, a little alarming. Robert walks himself through the day's events: waking up in a hotel near the airport, getting dressed, being driven to the cemetery, watching his father's casket being lowered into the ground, fielding awkward condolences from his father's business associates at the wake, finally absconding when press vultures snuck in with tiny recorders. 

There'd been a long drive back to the house (Robert still doesn't remember the address) set atop of one of Los Angeles' many hills, locked behind a gate and security. Then an hour and a half of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, mind racing even as his body ached with fatigue and jetlag.

Eventually he'd made his way to the PASIV—for what, Robert's not entirely sure. Lucid dreaming isn't exactly restful for the mind, but he supposes at least his body might be getting some kind of reprieve. After the plunge into darkness, he'd opened his eyes to a generic hotel bar, of all things. 

Robert scans the room; he supposes he might as well make the most of it.

At the far end of the bar are a dark haired man and a young woman deep in conversation. Near them are a blond man and an Asian man leaning into each other as though sharing a secret. They look familiar but Robert can't place their faces; he's shaken at least two hundred hands in the last three hours alone, so the probability is high that they're simply two more of his father's business acquaintances.

A few stools over is a strikingly beautiful blonde woman glancing at Robert coquettishly from under her lashes. But it's the broad man seated behind her that catches his attention—and this one Robert can place; he was a passenger in the first class section on the flight from Sydney. He blocked Robert's way briefly when he took off his jacket.

It's the mouth that does it, if Robert's being honest. It's probably the fullest set of lips he's ever seen on someone who hasn't been surgically enhanced, and it seems somehow totally at home on a face otherwise dominated by masculine features.

The man catches Robert staring and raises an eyebrow. The projection inclines his head with a slight pull at the side of his mouth and Robert hesitates only a moment before pushing off his seat. Hopefully this won't lead to hostile projections and guns, but then again, being shot is hardly the worst thing that's ever happened to him in a dream.

"Hello," Robert says as he approaches. "My name is Robert."

The projection hesitates only a moment. "Eames."

"Strange that I know your name," Robert muses aloud. "We were never introduced in real life."

"Perhaps you're making it up. It's the name of a rather famous chair, you know," the projection says, and Robert tries to place the accent. Not Australian—some kind of British, probably. "Does it matter what you call me?"

"I suppose not," Robert agrees. "I'm pretty sure I have a room here. You want to come up?"

"Alright." Eames finishes his drink and licks the last traces from his lower lip. The move is both completely obvious and devastatingly effective. "I'd love to see what a penthouse loo looks like."

They ride up to the top floor of the hotel side by side, not speaking or touching. When the door opens, Robert guides Eames forward with a hand that starts on the small of Eames' back and drifts down to the curves of his very firm ass.

The penthouse is decorated like every other penthouse Robert's ever stayed in without being an exact replica of any one in particular. There are no distinguishing features, names—nothing to make it anything but what it is: a bland composite. Amidst the sea of generic perfection Eames stands out as a unique, unsettling breath of life.

Eames takes off his jacket and drops it carelessly onto the couch, walking in the direction of the bathroom.

"You weren't kidding about the loo, huh?" Robert says as he unbuttons his jacket as well.

Eames glances over his shoulder with a knowing little smile. "Wouldn't you like to see me wet?"

"Jesus," Robert mutters, and undoes the tie around his neck with greater urgency.

Eames is shirtless by the time they reach the bathroom, socked feet making no sound on the marble floor. He's broad and muscular, chest covered in wiry hair. "Like what you see?" Eames asks as he hooks his thumbs into the waist of his pants and swivels his hips flirtatiously. A little strange to see on a man—it's a move that seems more fitting for the blonde Robert left at the bar—but not bad. 

"I do," Robert says, honestly. He's usually not drawn to buff guys—he likes his men small and pretty, much like his women—but the muscle definition is mouthwatering and the hair not too off-putting. It's a nice change of pace. Guess his subconscious is in the mood for that.

"Shall I continue?" Eames asks as he begins to undo his belt.

"Sure." Robert leans back against the counter. Most of the women he sleeps with make a big show the first time they undress, and he likes it—usually. But for some reason watching Eames flex and strip isn't generating the usual thrill.

Eames halts, the button of his fly undone, and looks up. "Your mind's on other things."

"It's not."

"You're a shite liar."

"I'm not—" Robert realizes the futility of arguing with his own subconscious and pivots to face the sink, the heels of his hands coming to rest against the cold stone of the counter. "If you really want to know, I put my father in the ground a few hours ago. Right next to my mother." 

"You're an orphan now," Eames says, coming up behind him. Robert can feel the heat of Eames' body through his shirt even though they're not touching, not yet.

"I guess I am." Robert leans over the sink and wonders idly if he's going to throw up. It'd be properly dramatic if he did, but then again, his father always disapproved of dramatics. "An orphan inheriting an empire. Not exactly Tiny Tim."

"Perhaps," Eames says. "But is it an empire you want?"

Robert doesn't answer. He doesn't have an answer. "You know, the funny thing is—nothing feels much different than before."

Eames presses his front against Robert's back, a solid wall of heat. Robert can feel the shape of an erection against his ass and it's comforting, somehow. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Robert studies their reflections in the mirror, and for a split-second Eames' handsome face seems to blur into something heavier, older. Robert blinks and the blur is gone. 

"I want you to help me forget," Robert says, reaching behind to grab Eames' ass. "You think you can do that?"

Eames spins him around with surprising strength and drops to his knees. As he undoes Robert's fly, he says, "There's nothing we can't do if we grit our teeth and put some sweat into it."

The words are familiar—an echo of a truism Robert had heard over and over in his house as a child, and then again at Proclus as an adult. It's one of the many pithy mottos Maurice had built into the DNA of his company, a reminder of how much hard work and dedication are valued. Hearing it in this context is absurd, laughable, possibly Freudian.

It's not enough to stop Robert from putting his cock in Eames' mouth, however.

The blowjob is warm and wet, an amalgam of all the blowjobs Robert's ever had. It combines the techniques of the most skilled people that have ever gone down on Robert with the slurping enthusiasm of his most loving girlfriends. Robert touches Eames' hair, which is soft and silky, and wonders whether the real Eames' hair feels like this. Wonders if he'd suck cock with this much competence or dedication. 

Perhaps the real Eames doesn't even suck cock—which would be a damned shame indeed.

The projection pulls off with a reproachful expression. "You're drifting again."

Robert pats his cheek. "I'm thinking about you, that's all."

"Not me." Eames rocks back on his heels thoughtfully. "Why do you think this Eames is stuck in your head?"

"I don't know. We barely even spoke. But there's something that's so—" Robert shakes his head. "It sounds crazy, but it feels like I've known you longer than I can actually remember."

"This is dangerous territory." Eames stands and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, lips red and wet. "That extractor you worked with—she warned you about this. Fixating on someone in a dream."

"This isn't fixating. This is just—" Robert shakes his head and chuckles softly. "I was about to say I don't know enough about you to fixate on you, but I guess you could say that about pretty much everyone I've met in the past five years. Can't remember the last time I had a conversation with someone that lasted longer than fifteen minutes."

"So you do want to talk."

"I want…" Robert closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I want to fuck you. Can we do that?"

"But of course," Eames says as he steps into the enormous, glass-enclosed shower and turns on the tap. He puts his hands on the conveniently placed towel bar set in the wall and spreads his legs, ass cheeks flexing slightly. 

It's a hell of a view.

One of the nicer aspects of dreams is the absence of the less pleasant aspects of sex; there's no need to worry about STDs, lack of proper cleanliness in key areas, or pregnancy. 

On the other hand, there is, of course, very little surprise to be found in these types of encounters—no matter how creative Robert's subconscious gets, every sex act is going to echo ones he's experienced in real life before. Perhaps if he were into kinkier things dream sex would be a more fertile ground of fantastic imaginings, but as it is, Robert mostly likes to get his dick sucked and put it in things. 

It's all masturbation dressed up with some bells and whistles, but as he slides his dick into the tight heat of Eames' ass, Robert is reminded of just how good a little fantasy can be.

* * * * *

Robert checks his watch as he holds out his other arm for a cab. He needs to be somewhere twenty minutes ago.

A taxi pulls up and he climbs inside. This turns out to be a mistake, as the backseat is already occupied.

"Fancy meeting you here," Eames says.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Robert slumps back in his seat and sighs. "Shit."

"You say the sweetest things," Eames replies, sounding amused. "Or were you brought to this dream involuntarily?"

"No, I—" Robert rewinds through the events of the day: meetings, conference calls, more meetings, and then a fruitless hour of lying in bed with his mind racing. Bingo. "I couldn't sleep. Again."

"Hate to break up the reunion, but—" the cab driver cuts into the conversation, "where we headed?"

Robert blinks; the driver is handsome, with dark hair and a face that's deceptively youthful. There's something familiar about his eyes, his deep voice, but Robert can't place it.

"There's a warehouse," Eames says, to Robert's surprise, "at the edge of the city. You know the one."

"Got it," the driver says as he turns the wheel. "One warehouse, coming up."

"Interesting choice," Robert murmurs.

"Warehouses come with washrooms as well," Eames replies, sending a flare of heat through Robert's body. "Though I expect it won't be as nice as the last."

"Do projections have memories?" Robert wonders aloud. "It's been… months."

"Topside, it's been," Eames says, tone light, but eyes oddly serious. "Down here, it's like no time has passed at all."

"You're gorgeous." Robert reaches out a hand to stroke Eames' cheek, his jaw. "But why you again? Why not someone new?"

"You know me."

"I don't. I met you on a plane ride after my father died and fucked a projection of you the day I buried him," Robert says.

"And what's today?" Eames asks, patiently.

"His birthday." Robert snorts, and closes his eyes. "God, am I really this—now I'm almost embarrassed."

"It's alright." A large hand folds over his, comforting and gentle. "It's only you and me here."

"And me," the cab driver chimes in. Robert opens his eyes.

"Don't mind him," Eames says in a stage whisper. "He has a terminal affliction that puts him a foul mood and makes it rather difficult for him to drive, besides."

Robert raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Eames leans in conspiratorially. "It's called giant stick-up-his-bum-itus. Had it ever since he was a child, I'm afraid. Tragic."

"Hilarious," the cabbie says while Robert chokes out a surprised laugh. "You should do standup, you know that?"

"So I hear," Eames says, leaning back with a satisfied smile.

The cab pulls up outside a large, shabby building. It's nondescript, not based on any particular warehouse Robert can remember ever touring, and it seems deserted. 

Eames climbs out of the taxi. Before Robert can get out after him, the driver comes around to Robert's side of the cab and opens the door. "Watch your head," the projection says.

The door to the warehouse is slightly ajar and Eames is gone—presumably inside already. The cab driver walks with Robert to the building entrance and pulls it fully open for him.

"Door to door service, huh?" Robert says wryly. "Should I tip you extra?"

"Sure," the projection says with an easy shrug. "I'll take my pile of dream money and drive my dream taxi home to put it in my dream safe. Hope no one tries to steal it."

Robert blinks, something about those words reverberating in his mind like a memory. He studies the projection. "You look so familiar. But I don't know from where."

The corners of the driver's mouth quirk up. "I bet you say that to all the projections."

"Yeah." Robert turns to glance inside the warehouse; from this angle it's dark and he can't see very far inside. "I don't even know what it would change if I knew who you were."

"Maybe nothing," the driver says. "Maybe everything."

As Robert opens his mouth to reply, Eames calls from inside the building, "Robert, are you coming?"

"Yeah," Robert says, with one last look at the driver's inscrutable expression. "Yeah, I'm coming."

* * * * *

"Back again?"

Robert leans back into now familiar arms and takes in the smoky lounge. There are scantily clad women and men on couches laughing with men that are clearly clueless johns. A bordello of some kind, then. His subconscious isn't much for subtlety when it comes to Eames.

"I finished splitting the empire my father built into little pieces today," Robert says, deciding to relax into the fantasy rather than beat around the bush. "The shareholders are furious and my godfather all but disowned me. But it's done."

"How does it feel?" Eames asks, voice a smooth rumble against Robert's ear.

"Not as good as this," Robert says. "Not as good as—I'd imagined it would."

"You're a free man, finally. Freed from your father's empire. Surely that counts for something?"

"But if I'm not the heir to Fischer-Morrow, who am I?" Robert rests his cheek against Eames', taking in his familiar scent, the scratch of his stubble. "What does a prince do after he's abdicated the throne?"

"Anything he wants." Eames pauses. "You could go to Disney World."

Robert barks a laugh. "Yeah. Maybe I'll meet Cinderella at the Enchanted Castle and we'll live happily ever after."

"There's no such thing as happily ever after in real life, you know," Eames says, softly. "There's only—more life. Until there isn't."

"Excuse me, gentlemen." A man with slicked blonde hair is standing over them, dressed in a waiter's uniform. "Care for a drink?"

Like everyone else in dreams, the projection is familiar. "Sure," Robert says. "If you tell me your name."

"Rod Green," the projection says without hesitation. "I used to work in marketing."

"So what are you doing here?" Robert asks. "This seems like a step down."

"You'd know the answer to that question better than I would," Green says. He inclines his head towards Eames. "How about you? Any guesses?"

"Can't help you with that," Eames replies breezily. "I'm the beauty, not the brains of the operation."

"Liar," Robert says. It's meant to be a fond joke, but it comes out odd, serious.

"Mm, perhaps I am," Eames says, sounding thoughtful. "What do you suppose that means?"

"I came here to give my mind a break, not go around in riddles," Robert says. "A scotch on the rocks for me."

"Of course, sir," Green says. "And for the lady?"

"A glass of champagne," Eames says without missing a beat, and Robert frowns. "To celebrate a new era."

As Green walks away, Robert turns to Eames. "Why did he refer to you as—"

Eames presses a finger to Robert's lips. "No more riddles, hm?"

"A toast," Green says as he returns with a plate of drinks. "To your bright new future."

"Yeah." Robert takes his tumbler and stares down at it, but the amber liquid is as smoky as this room. As impenetrable. "To a bright new future."

"The billionaire playboy look would suit you, I think," Eames says as he squeezes Robert's shoulder. "A model on both arms, sports cars you could crash."

"Or maybe a philanthropist, a patron of the arts or various humanitarian causes," Green suggests. "Saving whales or children's music programs."

"My father hated whales," Robert says, swirling the liquid in his drink. "He had an irrational fear of being swallowed by one even though he barely ever went on boats."

"A whale-hunter then," Eames teases. "A modern day Captain Ahab with his father's Moby Dick."

"Everything I've ever done, I've done for my father," Robert says quietly. It's serious, too serious for this conversation, but Rod Green fades away into the darkness of the lounge and all that's left is Eames. "I still don't know, though, if he was ever—if I ever made him proud."

"Let's say you did," Eames says. "What would that mean?"

"I don't know." Robert throws back his drink, feels the clink of ice against his teeth and the burn of alcohol down his throat. "I'd sleep better, I guess. Or maybe not."

"And if you didn't—if everything you've ever done has truly been a disappointment to him—what would that change?"

"He's dead now, so there's no going back and fixing it." Robert sucks in a deep breath and feels a little lightheaded. "I guess it wouldn't change anything. However he felt."

"You know I'm always happy to see you, Robert," Eames says, hand smoothing down Robert's back. "But there comes a point when we must always ask: is the road we travel worth it? Is the path we have committed to worth the cost, or would the wiser course be to strike a new path, even if it leads us back to where we started?"

Robert closes his eyes; another one of his father's truisms. He can almost hear his father's voice saying it at various keynote speeches over years, various shareholder meetings. Not as pithy as some, but his father always knew how to strike the right chord with his audience regardless.

"So what's the wiser course?" Robert opens his eyes. "Keep going this way or forge a new path? What's the right choice?"

"Darling," Eames says, voice the gentlest Robert's every heard it, "the point is: there are no more right or wrong choices. There's only _your_ choice, whatever it might be."

Robert stares into Eames' eyes, the color seeming to shift between blue and green and hazel. "That doesn't sound like something my father would say."

"That's because it's not," Eames says. "It's what _you_ say."

 

fin


End file.
